


Never Have I Ever (Until I Have)

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking Games, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14742699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: Jon has always hated these kinds of games… until he doesn’t.





	Never Have I Ever (Until I Have)

Jon couldn’t remember how exactly this particular game had started, but he knew without a doubt who had started it. Margaery Tyrell might have been Sansa’s best friend, so he couldn’t very well bring himself to dislike her, but she seemed to live for stirring up the most awkward situations imaginable. That was a major problem for someone whose mere existence Jon felt could best be described as _awkward_. 

At least this time he didn’t have to actually _do_ anything embarrassing, not like “Truth or Dare” of a few nights ago. This time around he just mainly had to _talk_ about it, not that Jon had much to tell, and that was almost even worse. 

He hated these kinds of games. There were few things he had had less success with than trying to toss a ping pong ball into a cup of subpar beer or attempting to chug said gross liquid and flip a solo right side up upside down, and his incompetence had been on full display the past few nights when it had been Theon and Robb who chose their evening activity. He’d even had to spend an entire round sitting under the table as the resident “troll” when he’d failed to land a single shot during a game of beer pong. 

But those games had been peanuts, apparently, compared to whatever Margaery had conjured in her mind for tonight’s plans. Jon supposed he should have been grateful, except his lack of prowess in beer-related athletic activities was closely followed by his often exceptionally tongue-tied conversational skills when it came to anyone of the fairer sex. And then there was his crippling fear of his brain short-circuiting and his traitorous, tangled tongue somehow untwisting just enough to let slip how he actually felt about Sansa. _That,_ without a doubt, was definitely the absolute worst of them all. 

Based off the look on Margaery’s face, Jon wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d suggested something along the lines of “Spin the Bottle” or “Seven Minutes in Heaven.” He immediately felt a pang of guilt for secretly hoping she would. Who was he kidding? Being allowed to touch any part of Sansa, even if it was just brushing against her hand as she passed him another drink, already seemed like heaven to him. 

Really, now that he thought about it, the past few days had alternated between strange, fantastical versions of his own personal heaven and his own personal hell. Up until this week, Jon had been living the kind of quiet, uneventful summer he’d expected when he signed up to stay at university to make some extra money doing odd jobs over at Mr. Mormont’s, while Robb decided to remain at school for the break too, taking a couple of classes so he had time in his schedule to do an internship in the fall. And as for Theon… well, no one really understood why Theon did anything anyway. 

The three of them spending the summer in the little house they’d rented for the next school year sounded like a good idea. Jon’s house back in Winterfell had always been a bit lonely with him as an only child and his mom rarely home, frequently working double shifts, and Robb and Theon were the closest he’d ever come to having real brothers. And it had been good at first, until they’d realized there was practically nothing to do during the long break as broke college kids. Few businesses remained open, the lakeside beach closed at sundown, and even the bars they frequented during the year lost the allure once it was just them and a couple of townies showing up. So lo and behold, Sansa’s announcement that she and her best friend and roommate Margaery wanted to come visit for a week, bored with their own long break from college, had been a most welcome diversion. 

And so Jon had spent nearly a week with Sansa in the house, the most he’d ever been around her without Mr. and Mrs. Stark around to keep an eye on them or her little brothers or Arya swirling about, and he had to admit that things had gotten a lot more interesting. 

And distracting. So, so distracting.

His brain liked to frequently remind him at the most inopportune moments exactly how much he’d seen of Sansa this summer: the long curve of her neck exposed by her hair up in a ponytail, the expanse of her back exposed when she was out sunbathing in her bikini with Margaery, and the way he’d seemed to run into her in the hall every time she just happened to be emerging from the bathroom after a shower, her legs long and smooth beneath the edge of her towel that ended somewhere just below areas he tried to fervently keep himself from thinking about. 

Matters had not been helped by the fact that Robb had vacated his room in favor of Sansa and Margaery, deciding to instead crash on Jon’s futon, leaving him with scarce few opportunities to obtain even some self-induced relief after many an hour spent in Sansa’s intoxicating presence. Between that and several sleepless nights spent beside a snoring Robb, imagining what Sansa was doing on the other side of the thin wall that separated them, Jon was surprised he had managed to maintain any sense of sanity at all. The saddest part was, he was almost certain Robb did all this on purpose to punish him and that he knew exactly how desperately Jon desired his sister; he would have to be a blind, oblivious idiot to not. 

Jon focused his attention back on the game, worried his vacant, wistful expression might have given himself away. He found it hard to follow the rules and concentrate on the progression of the game; from his seat he had the perfect view of Sansa’s long, long legs stretched out in front of her beneath the hem of her sundress she still wore even though the night had grown cool enough to enjoy the fire in the pit out back. Even Jon had changed into jeans to stay warm—that and he hoped they might better hide any of his incidental… _reactions_ to Sansa in case of such a catastrophe. 

After Margaery had explained the rules and made sure each of them had a full cup, Sansa had innocently started the game with “Never have I ever visited the Reach.” Only Margaery took a sip of her drink at that, and Jon had taken his turn next, following Sansa’s lead and playing it naïve when he said, “Never have I ever gotten a speeding ticket.” The rest of them drank to that, minus Sansa, and then Theon, of course, had gone right into the depths of his depraved mind and come up with, “Never have I ever had a finger in my ass,” to which Sansa cried, “Theon!” and things took a turn from there. 

Now, three rounds later, Jon still sat with his cup still almost filled to the rim with beer, obviously proclaiming all the things he’d never done. Not that that was bad—he didn’t want to have done some of the things they had, like purposefully going for a run naked like Theon or having used a household item for sexual purposes like Margaery. 

“Ew, I didn’t even know some of these things existed,” Sansa shuddered after Theon brought up some sex position that Jon was too embarrassed to admit he had never so much as heard of either. “And I don’t particularly _want_ to know about them, especially about _you,_ Robb.”

“Good thing you have an almost-full glass over there, little sister,” Robb shot back. “Otherwise I might have to rethink letting Joffrey and Harry go on with their lives.” 

“Really, caveman?” Sansa rolled her eyes and then realized with glee that it was her turn. “Never have I ever had a wet dream and then cried to Mom about how I thought I’d peed myself.”

“Oh come on, that was one time! I was eleven and I didn’t know any better!” Jon snorted as Robb turned to Margaery to defend himself. “How the fuck do you even know about that anyway?” 

Sansa shrugged and smirked, taking a celebratory sip of her drink. 

In an effort to move on and divert everyone’s attention from himself and the humiliating, sordid details of his childhood, Robb peered over at Jon’s own hardly touched cup, and as a smug grin graced his best friend’s face, Jon immediately regretted his previous amusement at Robb’s misfortune. “Never ever have I loved anything as much as Jon loves going down on a girl.”

“That’s not fair!” Jon protested. “You can’t just outright _say_ someone’s name!” 

“I made up the game, I’ll allow it,” said Margaery, who momentarily tore her attention away from the eyes she was making at Robb to look at Jon with a new sense of appreciation. 

“How would _you_ even know that?” Sansa said. He felt a rush of gratitude toward her as she jumped to his defense; she seemed to be his only ally in this game.

“There are some things you can’t unhear,” Robb said with a shiver. “And you met Ygritte, did she seem quiet?”

Jon hoped the rest of them would assume he flushed at the mention of his ex’s name rather than the truth of Robb’s statement and with shame of how often he’d thought of Sansa that way the past few days alone. 

“Well, if we’re going in that direction… here’s a surprising one: never have I ever had sex outside,” Theon said with a sly grin of his own.

Robb hooted. “Drink, Snow!” 

“I have not,” insisted Jon. 

“Okay, I clarify: in any natural environment,” said Theon.

Jon felt his face go red again, certain this shade of an intense scarlet would be noticeable even in the darkness, and not because the fire was too hot or the smoke wafted in his direction. “It was not outside—”

“It was in a _cave,_ ” Robb appealed to Margaery. 

“A cave is outside,” she agreed, though Jon thought that at this point she also would have agreed had Robb called the sky green or the grass red. 

Jon muttered and drank, knowing a lost cause when he saw one. He retaliated with some lame barb targeted at Robb and Theon next about skinny-dipping in the lake by the beach, which made Margaery and, surprisingly, Sansa sip too, and then the circle went round again, until it landed once more on Theon and his wicked smirk. 

“Never have I ever had a _guy_ go down on me,” he said. 

Margaery gave a dramatic sigh and downed the rest of her drink. “Earth to Sansa,” Margaery called across the circle. 

“Yeah, I—I’m paying attention,” she said, swirling her own still relatively full amount of liquid around her cup without raising it to her lips. 

Robb averted his eyes, abruptly incredibly intrigued by the pattern of the circles and ridges of the log he sat on. 

“Wait… so you’re saying… Joffrey… Harry… never… _ever_?” Margaery raised her eyebrows in question. 

Jon wondered if Sansa would be able to hear him if he let loose the incensed growl that threatened to burst from his chest. He had never particularly liked Joffrey or Harry, but he had always chalked that up to simple jealousy. Now though, as Sansa shook her head in response to Margaery’s question, a surge of anger coursed through him. 

“That’s… that’s a _crime,_ ” Margaery said, horrorstruck. He thought they hadn’t shared much in common at all, but she seemed to steal the words right from Jon’s brain.

Sansa shrugged. “There are far worse tragedies.” 

“Okay, do we have to talk about this?” Robb shifted around uncomfortably. Margaery looked eager to continue, and Theon seemed rather invested too, but Sansa waved for them to drop it. 

Margaery replenished her drink and the game moved on, but Jon didn’t. He couldn’t. Not when images of Sansa panting above him while his tongue tasted her flashed unbidden through his mind, not when he wanted nothing more than to hear her moan his name, or feel her fingers scrape through his hair. Well, assuming she _wanted_ that kind of thing, but if she did… it was that _if_ that made him feel as though his blood was too hot beneath his skin. 

Jon shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts before someone happened to say, “Never have I ever had a boner sitting around a campfire playing a drinking game,” and he found himself having to drink. It was impossible, though, when his heart quickened and his breath arrested every time he so much as caught a glimpse of the reflection of the fire on Sansa’s hair. 

He was just doubting that he would ever be able to snap out of this trance when he unceremoniously came crashing back to reality, his attention on full blast when Robb spoke and his stomach dropped for reasons that had little to do with the warm, watered-down beer that now remained in his cup. 

“Never have I ever had a massive, years-long crush on anyone in this circle,” Robb said, and Jon felt his former-best-friend-turned-traitor’s eyes lock on him. 

He glanced up in the uncomfortable silence that followed. He looked over at Margaery first, hoping against hope that perhaps Robb hadn’t meant for that radical statement to apply to him, that instead maybe he was airing his disinterest in a sort of low-key, nonconfrontational way, and he waited for her face to fall, since obviously _something,_ the kind of thing Jon never knew quite what to do with, was happening between her and Robb. Except then he realized Margaery’s all-knowing, too-observant eyes were turned back at him, and Robb’s were still boring into him, and even Theon all of a sudden seemed more interested by Jon than the plunging neckline of Margaery’s tank top, all of them staring except for Sansa, who looked down at the ground and swirled her drink around her cup. 

And so, because even in the darkness there was nowhere to hide, and even if there was, he was done fighting the way he felt, slower than slow, practically glacially, Jon raised his cup and took a sip of his drink only to nearly choke when Sansa did the same. 

When she lowered her cup, Jon caught the slightest hint of a smirk over its rim.

“Well, now that we’ve gotten over that,” Margery said breezily, “Never have I ever…”

But Jon didn’t even hear what she said. He had stopped listening. The game had been ruined forever, Jon knew _he_ had been ruined forever with that little lilt of Sansa’s lips and the way she looked at him now. He was so occupied ruminating over how utterly shook he was that he almost didn’t hear Sansa call his name. 

“Jon,” Sansa asked again in a soft, silky voice from right out of one of his fantasies. He liked that voice, almost as much as he liked thinking about her sweet sighs or imagining how she’d sound moaning his name as he pleasured her. Usually when he conjured that voice in his mind she used it to command him faster or harder or sing praises, but this time, for real, she said, “Will you come with me?” 

_You don’t know how much I wish I could,_ his traitorous brain thought before he could stop himself. He’d fantasized about that too, of course, but in reality, he gave a short nod. 

“Why d’you need him to come with you?” Robb demanded. 

“I need another drink,” she said simply, standing up and brushing off the skirt of her dress. “I thought maybe Jon could help.” 

“You have a whole glass right there,” Robb said, nodding towards her nearly untouched glass of vodka lemonade. 

“It’s warm,” Sansa said, pouring it out into the grass.

Jon ignored Robb’s daggered glare and followed her, his heart thundering. The walk back to the house seemed long, longer still when the others’ voices faded away and darkness fell without the light of the campfire to illuminate their way. 

They went in through the back door and Sansa hopped up on the kitchen counter, stuck her hand into a box of crackers beside her, pulled out a handful, and started to crunch on them. 

“I thought you wanted a drink,” he said slowly. He felt like she had laid some puzzle pieces out in front of him that he didn’t understand how to put together, though at least he recognized certainly standing there and staring at her was not the right answer. 

She wrinkled her nose. “All we left have is gross beer. I’m tired of that.” 

He suddenly wished he’d chugged the entire beer he’d left outside for some liquid courage. “Sansa… about the game…”

“That stupid game.” She rolled her eyes. “I am so sorry Robb and Theon picked on you like that—”

“No, I meant what you said about Joffrey and Harry.”

“Right. That.” She blinked a few times before shifting to stare down at the floor.

He cringed. _Why the hell would you bring up those fuckers?_ “I mean, forget about them. Forget I said anything.” 

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and Jon found himself forgetting anything that had happened to him in the entirety of his life before this moment. 

“I’ve made it a priority to forget they even ever existed,” she said in a way that would have sounded bitter on anyone else’s tongue but still so saccharine on hers. 

“Good. That’s… good.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, standing awkwardly in front of her. His throat was dry and scratchy, but he didn’t think if he drank the entire gallon of water sitting atop the fridge his thirst would be quenched. _Please behave,_ he thought desperately before his cock got any of its wayward ideas that seemed all too common despite being utterly and completely inappropriate in Sansa’s presence. 

In the silence, he heard the drip from the faucet, the steady creak of the house, the whir of the fan overhead. He could feel his curls sticking to the back of his neck; he should have put his hair up but it was too late for that now, and gods, he probably should have changed his shirt too, since even in the cool night air he felt like he’d sweated through this one… And it was much too late to brush his teeth or eat a mint, so if, _if_ on the off chance he ended up having any kind of mouth-to-mouth contact with Sansa, he’d taste like stale beer that she already just admitted she didn’t like… And those were the thoughts that whirled round and round in his mind until he couldn’t take it anymore, not with Sansa sitting across from him, somehow still managing to look divine, ethereal, like the complete opposite of the utter trainwreck he purported himself to be. 

“I like you,” he blurted. 

“I—I like you too, Jon,” she said with the same smile, though beautiful, that she offered to everyone from Rickon and Grandpa Tully to their old, crotchety neighbor back in Winterfell, Mr. Frey, and his legion of bratty grandchildren. 

“No, I mean…” He bent an arm and scratched behind his neck, which seemed to accomplish little beyond sticking a few more curls to his skin there. “I _really_ like you. Like, like you like you.” 

“Oh.” Sansa worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Jon wished he could take it between his own instead. Gently, of course. Romantically, even. 

“I’d, um, really like to hang out sometime. Just the two of us,” he clarified. “I could take you out for dinner, or a movie, or the art museum… anything you want to do, really.”

Her eyes lit up. “Like a date?” 

“Yeah, a date, I guess that’s what you’d call it.” He seemed to struggle with the basic English language in Sansa’s presence, one amongst many of the difficulties he faced, so it came as no surprise that he couldn’t seem to comprehend such a simple concept in such a pivotal moment like this either. “Do people even still call it that anymore?” 

“I dunno,” Sansa gave a short laugh. “But yes. I’d like that.” 

“When?” he burst out with and instantly cringed at his own overeagerness. “I mean, when works best for you?” 

Sansa, though, seemed unfazed. She even offered him a bit of a hopeful smile… or at least some kind of expression that didn’t mirror his own grimace. “What about now?” 

He frowned. “Where can we go now?” 

She gestured around. “What about here?”

“What about everyone outside?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Do you want to hang around to witness my brother sticking his tongue down Margaery’s throat?” 

Jon felt his own throat bob with the unbidden thought of himself engaging in a similar act with Sansa… albeit with far more finesse. “Erm…” 

“I thought not.” She reached across the counter for the last bit of the extra lemonade that had been left out. “We could start with drinks? Or…” 

“Or?” he prompted. 

“Or we could just skip to the good part,” she said, a pretty flush coloring her cheeks. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The part where we find out if we’re any good together or not,” she said, her eyes dropping to his lips. 

Jon felt himself redden under her appraisal, finding it simultaneously a turn-on to be the object of her assessment and nerve-wracking that this was some kind of test that required him to pass muster. He took a deep breath and desperately hoped his body wouldn’t give away his desire, though in some way maybe that was better than having to spit out the words all tongue-tied, but she didn’t really need to find out about the depths of his depravity, not now, not that way at least. 

“I—I mean if you want to, of course,” Sansa continued. “I didn’t mean—we don’t—”

Suddenly Sansa seemed as bad with words as him, but lucky for him this didn’t have to involve talking anymore. He drew closer, until he stood bracketed between her knees, drinks, everything else, everyone outside long forgotten. Sansa had been right—this was a much, _much_ better idea. 

Her hair smelled like wood smoke from the fire, and of something citrusy and maybe vanilla or lavender, he didn’t know besides that it was _so_ her and _so_ good. Even if he did recognize the scents, his brain wasn’t capable of focusing on anything beyond the sight of her so near he could see each of her eyelashes as her gaze swept downward over his body and the thrill of standing close enough that he could feel her breath wash over him with each exhale. If anyone walked through the door right at that moment there would be no mistaking what they were doing, but he was ready to face those consequences and die a brave man at Robb’s hands if it meant that the way Sansa looked up at him, her blue eyes dark and full of desire, would be seared into his memory for all of eternity. 

He could have stopped right then and stayed right there forever and it would have been enough—although who was he kidding, he could never get enough of Sansa, and he didn’t have to progress any further with this to know that. But perhaps if he played his cards here just right, he would have an infinite number of chances to admire her over and over and over again, so he closed what little distance that remained between them and kissed her. 

At the first contact he thought only of how soft her lips were, how perfectly pliantly they moved against his, and on the second pass she opened her mouth to him and he could think of little beyond how she tasted so sweet, like the sugary drink she’d been consuming. And then by the third he finally had enough sense to wonder if it were any good at all, or if he were wildly misinterpreting or hallucinating this entire thing... 

He leaned away. “Is this—”

“Good, yes,” Sansa said in the momentary breath she took before she was diving back into the kiss and sliding her tongue into his mouth. “God, yes.” 

His hands settled on her thighs, well below the hem of her short dress, while hers roamed the planes of his chest before they slipped down to feel the muscles of his stomach clench. He didn’t know how she could still feel warm to him when he was fairly certain his skin was already burning, every part of him that touched her seemingly on fire from his lips to his fingertips. 

Sansa reached up to brush her hair behind her shoulder, exposing her collarbone and the long length of her neck that he’d dreamt of running his lips down while she shuddered with pleasure, and suddenly those dreams were a reality. The real experience was even sweeter than he ever could have imagined, her skin perfectly smooth as though it were made for him to glide over, and the scent of her filling his nose. He knew he probably smelled disgusting himself, like sweat and smoke, and that he almost certainly tasted of salt and cheap beer, but Sansa didn’t seem to mind, her hums and breathy sighs encouraging him as his lips and hands slid lower. 

Before he slipped too far, this time Sansa pulled away and bit her lip. He was pleased to see her skin flushed and her lips reddened from their kisses. “Jon?” 

His eyes snapped up from where they lingered on her mouth. “Hm?” 

“Do you really like to…” She let her eyes drift downward, not sure what to say. 

“I’ll kiss you anywhere you’d like, Sansa,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice that sounded nothing like himself, which made a weird sort of sense considering he felt as though he were having some kind of transcendent, out-of-body experience that could only exist bracketed between her legs. 

“Even, um…” She cast her eyes to the floor. 

He could feel his heart thud—whether it was in response to her intended request or to pump more blood to send south, he didn’t know. “Even there. Especially there.”

She gave a nervous titter, but he saw curiosity in her eyes. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he blurted. “I do.”

“Well…” Her skin blushed an even deeper shade of red, and even in his horny haze he felt a primal urge to thrash every man who had made her embarrassed to speak her mind and ask for what she wanted. “If you do… I want that, too.” 

He gave a nod, and he wasted no time in wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her firmly towards him, her surprised laughter the most wonderful sound he could imagine. 

“Sorry it’s not a cave,” he said, and he was immediately rewarded with another peal of her giggles. 

The counter was just the right height for her to arch back against so he positioned her there and knelt to the floor, the cool tiles a small mercy when he lifted the hem of her dress and kissed up her thighs. He continued his ascent until he reached her underwear, a little scrap of hot pink lace, and he briefly wondered if it was even comfortable to wear such a thing, especially sitting outside on the rough logs by the fire, but either way he practically drooled in reverence.

“I _might_ have been hoping there would be a chance you _might_ see them,” she said, and he stifled the undignified sound that threatened to spill out by swiping his tongue over the fabric between her legs, pulling a keen from her throat. Even as he appreciated the effort, he hoped she wasn’t too particularly attached to them, because as he slid them down her legs and stuffed them into his back pocket, he knew they were not to be returned. 

Sansa spread her legs apart, affording him more space for his hand and a better view of her cunt. _Fuck…_ It was practically the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“And here I thought you were the nice, quiet one out of Robb’s friends,” Sansa said, grinning down at him as he realized he had just paid her that compliment out loud. 

He chuckled, his breath ghosting over her skin. He felt her legs shift in anticipation, and as much as he wanted to draw out this moment forever and enjoy each and every individual centimeter of her, he couldn’t keep himself from waiting a second longer. He fit his face between her legs, and—

Sansa yelped and he jumped away. 

“Sorry,” she giggled. “Sorry, Jon, your beard tickles a bit, that’s all…” 

He would have been willing to shave the whole damn thing off right now if she wanted, but then she continued with, “But I like it,” and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

He scraped his beard against her thighs for a minute to acclimate her to the feel, and when he felt her relax against him, he nudged her legs further apart and slid his tongue over her. 

Sansa gasped, and he tempered the way he felt his lips curve upward in a satisfied smirk by taking a second long, slow lick up through her folds. In all the time he’d spent picturing this moment in his overly vivid and highly debauched imagination, he had never even come close to accurately anticipating how good it would feel to please Sansa, how she felt hot and silky on his tongue, how she tasted like sweet honey... 

He took a chance, opening his eyes to peek up at her and risking an awkward moment, but Sansa’s own were closed, her fingers curling around the edge of the counter to help keep her upright. He would have given anything for her to clutch at his hair instead though, so he skimmed over her again, this time with a bit more pressure, and this time he let his tongue swirl over her clit. Her response was immediate, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat and her hands slipping from the counter and knotting in his curls. 

It was difficult to keep himself from rutting against her like some kind of fevered animal, all of the smooth skin of her legs that he’d always dreamt of touching stretched out right in front of him, her muscles quivering as they held her from collapsing onto him. Not that he would have minded that outcome, of course—he would take Sansa any way she would let him have her, kitchen floor and all. He allowed himself to imagine for a moment what it would feel like if she reached down and unbuttoned his jeans and freed his cock as it so desperately wanted, taking it in her hand, wrapping her long fingers around it and stroking until… _Stop, stop, stop,_ he chastised himself as he nearly came at the mere thought. 

The sounds she made were gratifying enough, with all of her stuttered sighs and stifled cries, but then she started to rock her hips into every slick glide of his tongue and he realized he was greedy, that he would always want more, more, more of her, as much as she was willing to give. He lapped at her, feeling her wetness run down into his beard, enough that even when he pulled away to catch another glimpse of her, head tilted back and back arched, he could still lick it off his lips, groaning at the taste.

He felt like he should probably say something—give some kind of impassioned speech about how much he loved her, tell her _Sansa, I’ve been dreaming of this for years,_ but words… he wasn’t so good with words, and even in his head, even if he was capable of comprehensible human speech in such a momentous moment like this, each idea seemed worse than the last. Well, that and he’d have to wrench himself away from Sansa in order to do so, so instead he put his mouth back on her to shut himself up. 

He lifted one of her legs, bending her knee and balancing it against his shoulder, so he could spread her further apart before he brought his hand up to join his tongue between her legs, unable to suppress another groan as his first finger, and then his second, slipped into her easily. And when he slightly curled them, Sansa responded with a moan escaping from her pretty parted lips. Jon whimpered like the dog he knew he was as she squeezed herself around his fingers, his whine intensifying in embarrassingly high pitch as she wound tighter around him. 

Even though he knew that if he had been standing in her place and their roles had been reversed, he would have cum long, long ago in a brief instant, it still sent a jolt of joyful surprise through him when she panted, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m so close…” 

His name had never sounded better than it did on her lips as she came, her legs trembling, and a rush of heat coating his fingers and bursting against his tongue. In that moment, he didn’t give a flying fuck about what Joffrey and Harry were good at, if they were bigger than him or taller or richer or any of those things that people seemed to think mattered. He knew he was good at this at least, and that knowledge, along with the sated grin on Sansa’s face, was plenty. 

Sansa slid away from the counter and pulled him into a hug. Either that, or she was using him as a crutch to stand; he felt a strange rush of pride at the thought of rendering her pleasantly boneless and weak-kneed. Sansa drew him closer and sagged against him in what Jon proudly noted appeared to be post-orgasmic bliss. He’d hugged Sansa before, but never like this, with her breasts pressed up against his chest, her lips at his neck, her face buried in his hair, and certainly his cock had never before poked her mid-hug, eliciting another one of her heavenly musical giggles. 

“Best first date _ever,_ ” she said, the way her voice slipped out breathlessly doing nothing to slow his rapid heartbeat or alleviate resolve the uncomfortable situation in his jeans. She nudged against him. “Your turn?”

“Next time,” he said, without thinking, without asking if she had entertained the idea that there _would_ be a next time.

Sansa nodded against his chest in agreement though. “Jon?” 

“Hm.” 

“How about for our second date, we do something you’ve never done?” 

He readily agreed.


End file.
